


Hands

by Dominion_of_Dust1886



Category: British Actor RPF, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Real Person Fiction, Tom Hiddleston Fandom
Genre: Can I haz a Tom?, Don't mind Tom as he takes off his shirt, F/M, Mild Smut, OH DAMN..., Romance, Sex, Sexual Content, Shameless Smut, Smut, snake hips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-31
Updated: 2014-05-31
Packaged: 2018-01-27 19:17:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1719614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dominion_of_Dust1886/pseuds/Dominion_of_Dust1886
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You (the reader) have injured yourself on the set, and Tom Hiddleston decides to help you out...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hands

You look up at Tom’s face, which is etched in worry. You give him a smile of your own as you raise a hand to cup his cheek.

“Tom, I’m perfectly fine,” you give a small wince as the medic finishes up the last stitch in your hand.

It was your clumsy fault after all. Your costume was so elaborate that walking itself was an exercise in dexterity. A fatal misstep caused you to trip over Tom’s foot into the prop table. Sure, much of the items are safe foam latex and whatnot, save for the pair of really sharp scissors that managed to cut your palm.

The dear man, his face softened at your touch, yet worry still remained. “I’m supposed to save the princess, not cause her harm,” he said.

“I was the clumsy one,” you say as the bandages were wrapped around the wound. “I can’t see where I’m supposed to place my feet.” You heave in a sigh, “I guess the director will be peeved at this development.”

“Yes. I’m afraid so,” Tom admits, “but everyone is exhausted, including said director.”

He helps you to your feet, one hand holding your uninjured one, the other at your waist. You are not known for fainting spells, but you don’t tell him that.

Although the smell of his cologne is enough to make you weak at the knees. “I talked to him about our scenes,” he said as the two of you go towards the dressing rooms, “and we won’t be needed for a few days.”

You gather your purse and coat as he gathers his own personal effects. You try to get out your keys, but the man manages to take them from you.

“I, my dear, will drive you home,” he states.

A small flutter begins in your chest, but you say, “I am perfectly capable of driving myself home, Mr. Hiddleston.”

“Not with that hand,” he nodded to your bandaged hand.

You sigh, actually grateful to not murder it further. “Well, if you insist.”

He casts his eyes about before picking up a brown leather book from the dressing table, “don’t forget your sketchbook.”

Ah. The sketchbook. The most important piece.

As an artist, you sometimes find yourself keeping busy with random sketches. Even the pull of acting hasn’t diminished it’s elusive hold.

During one of the production days, you were lazily sketching out the hilly landscape, not really focusing on much but what lay before you. It was one of the perks of being an actor, just enjoying the whole process while still having time for other things. As you place your pencil back on the paper, a shadow fell over you and the open page. You turn slightly to see none other than Tom Hiddleston in your peripheral vision.

You feel your heartbeat quicken, but you return your gaze to the paper, concentrating the best you can on the picture.

He doesn’t say anything for a few heartbeats, then, “that’s very good. I didn’t know you could draw.”

A faint blush touches your cheeks as you turn your gaze to his. He too was in costume, save for a pair of sunglasses pushed up on his nose. You give him a small smile and manage to say, “thanks. Though it’s hardly noteworthy.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” a smile touches his face and your heart goes into double time. “May I see some more?”

You blink in surprise. There was no way you refuse, as you hand him the small book. In his long-fingered hands, it looks even smaller. He removes his sunglasses, hooking them on his collar and opened the book.

He pages through some of the earlier pictures, “these are lovely,” he states, pausing at some of the more detailed oriented ones.

You notice he stopped at the one you were sketching of him, reclining on one of the tables. You feel slightly embarrassed, but he keeps flipping through.

“Thank you,” you say, “though I still need practice.”

“On what?” He questions as his blue eyes take you in. He ceased paging through the others.

You bring up your hands, flexing and turning them in the sunlight. “I suck at drawing hands.”

“I hear they are not easy to draw,” he says. He opens his mouth, closes it, then says, “perhaps, you could use mine. I mean, when we are on set, well, if it’s not an inconvenience to you-”

You are taken aback. Was Tom Hiddleston, actor, advocate and heartthrob to millions, offering to model his hands for YOU?

“Sure,” you say, “but to inconvenience you-”

“There is no inconvenience,” he says as he hands back the book. “I don’t mind.”

So from there on, when the two of you were on set during downtime, Tom offered his hands for you to draw in your sketchbook. He allowed you to ask for certain poses and to give you advice. In time, he offered them up for you to touch, for reference. But, as it is with time, it also brings the two of you closer than imagined; both acting and downtime with each other brought you two closer.

Until today, that was.

He pulls his car into your driveway before hurrying out to open the passenger door for you. He walks you to your door, holding out his hand for your keys, which you obediently hand over. He opens the door, letting you in first. With the moon full outside the large living room window of your apartment, you don’t turn on the lights.

“Thanks for the ride,” you manage, as you take off your coat.

You then realize he’s taking off his own coat, setting it over the arm of the couch.

“You don’t have to stay if you don’t want to,” you say, removing your shoes. You give a slight “ouch!” As you accidentally rub the leather of your shoe against your injured hand.

Tom is immediately by your side, taking your hand in his own. He gently unwraps the bandage as you keep yourself steady, then flicked the light on above you.

“Hmm,” he says, which draws your attention to the cut. It was slightly raw and bleeding again.

“Let me help you with this,” he says.

You don’t refuse, insane to do so. You point him to the kitchen as you gather up your first aid supplies. You return to the kitchen, settling yourself in the chair next to his.

He takes in your homely surroundings, noting how you keep it tidy enough for company. “You have a nice apartment.” He says as he opens some new bandages.

“Thanks. It was what was available,” you say, laying your smarting hand on the table.

He preps a cotton ball with a splash of rubbing alcohol, taking your hand in his. “I’m afraid this is going to smart quite a bit.”

It certainly does, but his caressing thumb on your wrist distracts you. You don’t know how long you sit there, but he is carefully rewrapping your bandage after treatment.

You rotate your wrist as he stands, offering you his own. You take it.

“Thank you,” you whisper, feeling him step closer.

All that time on the set did bring the two of you closer than expected. The things you learned, told him, laughed at, all were lain before him as he did the same for you. It was unexpected how much the two of you were alike.

You smell his cologne again, as well as feel the heat of his body so near yours. He gently takes your newly wrapped, injured hand in his, holding it lightly as if he would break it.

“I am sorry this happened,” he says, looking deeply into your eyes. Slowly, he leans closer.

“Don’t be,” you whisper, lips mere spaces away, “don’t be.”

His lips touched yours, to which ignited the ever present ember that was evident between the two of you. The tentative kiss then deepened, evolving beyond just a chaste kiss. Your hands found their way around his neck, while his own clutched your body to his.

Your hands fisted into the back of his shirt, the feverent kisses a line of fire on your lips. He pulls away, letting you strip him out of it, his eyes smoldering in the kitchen light.

Tom returns to kissing you as you blindly pull him along to the bedroom. He managed to undo the buttons of your blouse, which you carelessly discard in the hallway. You nudge open the door where, at the base of the bed, he slowly lowers you onto the soft covers. Even with your lame hand, you manage to undo your jeans as he pulls them off the rest of the way. Another tug removed your panties swiftly.

He returned his lips to yours, touching his tongue to yours in light passes.

In your head, you give a silent thanks for working out your butt. But every other thought escaped you as his fingers found your center.

You moan against his lips as he worked magic from those digits you adored. It could have sent you over the edge, but he slowed, resting them gently there as he stole another kiss from you.

He pulled away, using his free hand to remove his own jeans and boxers, never taking that hand away from your center.

The strap of your bra slipped over your shoulder, your breath ragged, undulating. Not wanting to be undone by the newly christened ‘one-handed wonder’ that is Tom, you pull the lacy bra off with your good hand, as naked as he was.

He leaned in again, kissing your lips before trailing down, over your clavicle, to the slope of your left breast, and over the nipple. He gave a light bite, then ran his tongue about it’s circumference. His free hand wrapped about your right breast, thumb fondling the nipple into hardness.

You moaned again as your back arched, but that digit remained still. Then, he flicked it again, causing your moan to gain volume. You could feel his smile.

Tom, then straightens, removing his lips and hands from where they were, before laying his hands on your hips. You oblige by spreading your own legs as he leans in, filling you with his hardness. But he goes slow, at the sight of your face, awash with ecstasy.

Eventually, finally filling you completely to the hilt, he kisses you, tenderly. More than you have ever felt from anyone.

With his lingering kiss, Tom begins to move. Slowly pushing as you rock with him. You spread your thighs wider, which he accepts by pushing deeper, intensifying the sensation. Your hands reached up to grab ahold of his ginger locks, to which he gives a moan himself.

It also made him thrust harder, faster; a burst of adrenaline.

You can feel your climax slowly build, patiently forming as you arch your back to his thrusts. That’s when you lock eyes with his, the want and need evident on his handsome features.

It was enough to send you into your climax, your body giving into that basic animal instinct. Then, a few seconds later, his climax came, his own cries in tandem with yours. Brow furrowed, body clenching, and all for you. It was one you wanted to experience more and more.

After what felt like eternity, Tom’s thrusts slowed, his body emptying every bit into you, bucking against your senses. Both of your breaths labored against one another. With one last thrust, he collapsed to his forearms, resting his forehead against your own. There the two of you stayed, entwined, breathing heavily, giving light kisses between breaths.

Eventually, he rolls to his side, not pulling out of you. There, the two of you remain, still in copulation, awash in the afterglow under the clean, silvery moonlight.

His hand, the one that provided the first bit of pleasure, traced lightly across your ribs, a rippling of gooseflesh trailing from it’s wake.

You smirk at him, “well. There certainly was more talent in that one finger than I imagined.”

Tom’s eyes crinkled as he gave a heartfelt laugh, pulling you closer. “It was the least I could do.”

“But of course,” you reply, savoring every bit of him. Eventually, you say, “so. Hair pulling.”

In the light, Tom’s complexion turns a shade darker as a devil-may-care smirk came over him. “One has their secrets. Which you, darling, now know of at least one.”

“Oh, the facets of your character that I discover,” you say, as again, you give a lock of his hair a tug.

His eyes flutter shut at the tug, as you feel him shift his hips. You once again feel the stiffness inside you. His eyes begin to smolder yet again.

“Oh,” he growls as he drives into you again. “You haven’t had enough? I’ll fix that.”

He certainly did. Multiple times.

You learned a few things afterwards. One, he stays for breakfast, taking you back to work.

Two, you don’t have problems drawing hands again.


End file.
